


Running Away (Will Never Make You Free)

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Detroit Red Wings, Discipline, Disobedience, Disrespect, Forgiveness, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Rookie and Mentor, Spanking, first spanking, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6307309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gus is afraid Hank doesn't love him any more. Written per reader request. Set during Gus' rookie year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Away (Will Never Make You Free)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a public service announcement that my life is a madhouse right now because I've got a new job and I'm looking for a new apartment (so double stress, yay), which means I might be slower than usual responding to reviews, requests, or emails, as well as posting stories. Please try to be patient with me, and don't take it personally. I'll be more prompt once my life is less hectic, I promise.

“Running away will never make you free.”—Kenny Loggins

Running Away (Will Never Make You Free)

Squirming awkwardly as an earthworm in a puddle trying to find a comfortable position on the usually accommodating cushions in Hank’s living room sofa, Gus wished fervently that Hank would say something rather than just study him sternly as if he were a recalcitrant pupil caught smearing wads of chewed bubblegum on school furniture. 

“I believe I’ve already explained to you, Gus, that English is the only language to be used in the locker room.” As though Gus’ thoughts had spurred him into speech, Hank spoke for the first time since they had returned from practice, and hearing the frigid edge to Hank’s tone, a grimacing Gus found himself abruptly longing for Hank to have remained silent instead. 

“You might have, yeah.” In an anxious reflex, Gus brought his fingernails to his teeth and began to gnaw on them like a dog worrying a bone. 

“I might have?” Hank put a sardonic emphasis on the question before continuing curtly, “I might also have reminded you of that when you started speaking Swedish in front of Pav in the locker room today.” 

“What difference does it make?” Gus scowled as a piece of nail broke lose in his mouth, he realized what he was doing, spat out the chunk of nail into the wastepaper basket,   
and lowered his hand to avoid any further temptation to indulge in what he knew was a childish, disgusting nervous tic. “It’s not like Pav understands English any better than he does Swedish.” 

“He understands English better than he lets on.” Hank folded his arms across his chest, and Gus probably should have taken that as an obvious warning to cease insulting the hockey wizard who had been Hank’s best friend in Detroit for more years than anybody bothered to count. 

“That’s not saying much.” With a snort, Gus rolled his eyes. “He acts as if he doesn’t understand a word of English.” 

“You’re talking about a living legend,” snapped Hank, giving Gus’ shoulders a firm shake. “Show some respect.” 

“You tease him worse all the time,” protested Gus, stung by the sharp reprimand and twisting out of Hank’s grasp before he was subjected to any more strong, scolding shakes. 

“He’s my best friend!” Hank exploded, eyes burning and cheeks blazing. “I’ve earned that right. You haven’t.” 

“Bullshit.” Gus’ jaw clenched in mutiny. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard all week, including Pav’s caveman English.” 

“Enough!” It was one word, but coming so harshly from Hank’s mouth, it made Gus fall quiet, as if his lips had gone numb, but when Hank seized his elbows in a vice-grip and upended him over his knee that state evaporated swifter than morning dew. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” demanded Gus, as he fought to upright himself and discovered Hank’s palm pressing incessantly between his shoulder blades, locking him into this disconcerting place over Hank’s knees. He could only think of one thing—a spanking—that was one in this ignominious posture, but spanking, thank God, was illegal in Sweden, and anyway, spanking was reserved for children, not adults. There could be no way that Hank was about to spank him unless hell had frozen over and they were now able to play hockey there too. 

“Giving you a spanking,” Hank pronounced grimly, countering Gus’ conclusion and snaking the hand that wasn’t pushing between Gus’ trembling shoulder blades around Gus’ waist to unzip and lower his jeans. 

“You can’t,” spluttered Gus, his legs flailing in a desperate bit to locate the floor, which currently felt as distant as Ethiopia. “I’ve never been spanked before.” 

“When you’re being spanked, all you have to do is stay still—don’t kick, don’t squirm, and don’t reach back to cover your butt, since doing any of those things will earn you extra swats, kid—and don’t argue with me and answer questions when I ask them.” Sounding supremely indifferent to Gus’ panic about the impossible yet somehow impending spanking, Hank abandoned Gus’ pants at his kneecaps, impeding Gus’ flailing, and then returned his hand to Gus’ waist, where it closed around the elastic band of Gus’ black briefs. “It’s easy. If you cooperate, you don’t have to be concerned about messing up.” 

“I’m not worried about messing up.” Gus bit his lip so forcefully it bled, tainting his tongue with a metallic tang. “I’m worried about it hurting.” 

“Of course it will hurt. That’s the point of a spanking.” Hank’s voice was as brisk as his fingers yanking down Gus’ underwear to expose his pale buttocks, which quaked from fear of the imminent physical discipline and from the cool air in the living room. “When I’m done spanking you, you won’t want to sit down for awhile, but you won’t be left with bruises or anything like that.” 

More intimidated than reassured by this declaration, Gus gasped as the first smack landed on the center of his rear. As Hank’s hard hand blazed a trail of fire up and down his rump, Gus dissolved into whimpers that formed a weak counterpart to Hank’s chiding: “You will not speak to me disrespectfully, and you will not talk about Pavel Datsyuk with casual contempt when he is one of the most admired figures in the NHL and in Red Wings history. Understand, Gus?” 

“Yes, Z.” Gus’ answer was a cry and he wanted to add that he respected and loved the Magic Man just like everybody else who wore the Winged Wheel, and hadn't really meant his nasty remarks earlier, but it was difficult to choke out anything further when his entire backside was a bonfire of agony from Hank’s punishing palm, which was now slapping at his tender sit-spots. 

“Good.” Hank’s voice didn’t soften, and neither did his hand, as the spanking traveled back up Gus’ behind, leaving scorched flesh as souvenirs. “You will obey me and the rules of this organization, which include English, not Swedish, being the language of the locker room. Got it?” 

“Yes, Z.” Gus’ cry had grown into a howl that would have shocked a werewolf, and he wondered if the spanking would ever end or if he would die in this suffering. 

“If you forget, you’ll be taking another trip over my knee for a reminder, scamp.” Hank punctuated this admonishment with a final, searing swat, and, then, rubbing soothing circles into Gus’ heaving back, restored Gus’ briefs and jeans to their original locations before gently guiding Gus into an upright potion and attempting to draw Gus to his chest in a warm embrace. 

Sensing Hank’s intent and unwilling to be hugged by someone who must not love him (any more or at all) if he had spanked him, Gus, burying his face in his palms in a futile endeavor to hide his tears and shame, jerked away from Hank and bolted upstairs to his bedroom. He was smarting from head to toe (especially in the area where Hank had disciplined him), and he was terrified of being followed even though he couldn’t hear Hank’s feet pounding behind him, so he slammed his bedroom door in his wake without realizing what he was doing. 

Once awareness hit him, hysteria ripped through him—no doubt Hank had heard the door slam, and, taking it as a sign of persistent disobedience and disrespect, would be arriving in the bedroom soon to spank him again—and he collapsed on his bed, sobbing into his silk pillowcase. 

His butt hurt more than he could have imagined but that was nothing compared to the pain in the heart hammering inside his chest, broken but still stubbornly beating. He was ashamed of what he had said to Hank and about Pavel. His words had been so reprehensible that he couldn’t blame Hank for no loving him any more, but he did wish that Hank hadn’t hated him enough to spank him, because Hank’s hands were harder than bricks…

The door creaked open as it would have in the climax of a horror movie, and Gus felt his mattress sag like wet bread as Hank sat down beside him. Hyperventilating as he felt Hank grasp his shoulder, Gus begged, “Please don’t spank me again now, Hank. You can do it later, but please not now.” 

“Shh.” Hank’s fingers combed through Gus’ sweaty, blond hair, and Gus felt his breathing start to slow. “I’m not going to spank you again. I know you ran away and slammed the door because you were hurt and upset, not because you were angry and defiant. I’m not going to punish you for being hurt or upset.” 

Gus continued to relax as Hank stroked his hair and squeezed his shoulder. Once Gus’ breathing resumed its normal pattern, Hank said softly, “Gus, I have something important to ask you, and I want you to be honest with me. Okay?” 

“Will I be in trouble if I am?” Gus twisted his neck halfway around to shoot Hank a sidelong glance with one eye. 

“No.” Hank shook his head and went on, “I need to know if you’re scared of me because I spanked you, kid.” 

Mopping tears away from his eyes, Gus contemplated this before replying hesitantly, “Not scared of you exactly. Just scared of being spanked.” 

“Good.” Hank ruffled Gus’ hair. “That’s how it should be. You shouldn’t be scared of me, but you should be afraid of getting spanked, or the spanking didn’t do its job.” 

“Oh, the spanking did its job all right,” Gus assured Hank dryly, rubbing ruefully at his rump. “How about a question for a question?” 

“Fire away,” Hank told Gus as Gus flipped on his side to look at him. 

“Do you love me?” Gus couldn’t devise a less pathetic phrasing. 

“Of course I do.” Hank leaned down to brush his lips across Gus’ forehead. “I’ll always love you no matter what, kid.” 

“But you spanked me.” Gus forehead furrowed where Hank had kissed it as he tried to reconcile what seemed to him two opposing facts—that Hank loved him and that Hank had spanked him—which collided in his brain like an unbendable force meeting an immoveable object. 

“When I first came over from Sweden, I thought that people never hit those they love.” Hank’s fingers stroked the lines out of Gus’ forehead. “The truth is that’s sometimes the case, and sometimes it isn’t. After Steve Yzerman spanked me for the first time, he explained to me that he did it because he loved me, not because he hated me or because he was mad at me, and he couldn’t beat to see me disrespecting myself, my teammates, and my organization. It took me awhile but eventually I accepted that he truly did spank me out of love and not out of anger or hatred. That’s the same way I spanked you, Gus.” 

Not certain how to respond to tho revelation but aware that he had to say something, Gus confessed, “I ran away because I was afraid you didn’t love me any more.” 

“Then remember—-“ Hank’s hand slid up to card the tangles out of Gus’ hair—“running away will never make you free. Only love and forgiveness will do that.” 

“I love you because you’re my mentor.” Gus smiled, content as a purring kitten, as he melted into Hank’s touch. “You forgive me because I’m your rookie.”


End file.
